There is no death without a grave stone. Merely a transcendence from this life to another.

This is what my father told me when my grandmother passed away. She was kidnapped. Her body was never found. We tried for days and nights to hunt for some semblance of her death, to settle our constant mental turmoil that she was out there somewhere, hurt and bleeding; that perhaps, she was hanging by a thread; that maybe she could be saved.

I missed her. She used to make me honey essence to apply on my scars and wounds after every full moon night. She told me tales of werewolves, good ones who tried to help, and bad ones who tarnished our image further.

It took me a while to get over her death. It took me till I met you and James and Peter. It took me so long.

There is no death without a grave stone. Merely a transcendence from this life to another.

I don't know how much I believed that till your smug profile disappeared from view entirely. The bark like cackle, halted as your face failed to cope with realisation. Still, in mid-laugh, you disappeared behind the thin, dark sheet.

I think that I've never been more scared by how fragile life is, how easy it is to lose something so full. It only takes a second, a blink. One moment you're there, dueling, laughing, exuding confidence; and the next? You're gone- swallowed by just a piece of fluttering cloth.

Gone without so much as a trace. The last of us, for me. I clung on to you, these last two years. It was the final string, or so I thought.

True, there is no grave stone for me to visit, nowhere to leave you flowers (though you hated them, I am to believe that it is a gesture of remembrance), no place to write, for you:

Nowhere to let my tears trace their way down my sallow face, leaving behind an acrid taste in my mouth.

No, without a gravestone, there is no proof, no tangibility. The end is not palpable enough without there being a definitive end to witness.

There is no place where I can feel physically close to you, even if it means having to sit by your decaying, rotting corpse, in prayer that you found James on the other side; that it was a grand reunion of sorts, filled with merriment and felicity. Fraternal bonds last a lifetime, and more, dear brother.

What if I told you that this is how you would go? Eaten by veil, with laughter splayed across your boyish features, mouth hanging in mid-curse. Would you believe me? Or would you let out a derisive bark.

Eaten by a damn veil? No, Moony, no. That isn't nearly half as dramatic as death for me. I'd die like a hero...People will write stories about me, Moony. Just you watch. You're right about the laughter though. I'll laugh till the last breath leaves my body.

You see Padfoot, I always thought death was a dark abyss; that people would either go silently, in submission, or crying, in defiance. I never imagined that there would be a third kind -- the kind that would never give up on their spirit, even at the close.

But you aren't really dead, are you? Let me in on the secret then. What really lies behind that pall? Is there another world, perhaps an alternate universe? Are you living, breathing, chasing girls, finding love? Have you found it, whatever it is you've been looking for all along, but never found here? I want to know that you're okay-- no, better than okay, Sirius.

Tell me that the last link wasn't severed when you fell into nothingness.

At four o' clock, your limp body was slung across the sofa, snoring loudly. By ten o' clock, your willow frame was soaring through the rickety set-up, from which the black drape was hung.

"You aren't really dead now, are you?" I sigh aloud.

"Death is but the next great adventure, Moony." The deep rumble can hardly be mistaken. There is a smirk hanging in the air. I can barely contain my euphoria at the sound of your voice.

"But Sirius! I -- I thought you were gone."

"Away, maybe, for now. Never gone, Remus. Death can't do us in," you say. I can practically hear you grinning.

A moment passes in reminiscence. Somewhere buried in the not-so-deep subconscious of my mind, four teenage boys are soaking wet, shrieking with laughter.

"I was thinking... of all those times... remember when we jumped into the black lake in the seventh year?"

"Oh, like it was just yesterday!"

Your cackle is still ringing in my ears when a faint light flickers behind my eyelids. An abrupt pull, back into reality.

Then, slowly, I reply. "No, to a friend." I can't help it, my lips twitch upward in the slightest of smiles. "My friend."

Death is but the next great adventure.

Boredom is an infection and your soul perished in it, receding into your lungs, choking the air out of your body, those last two years you stayed, rotting in your parent's dwellings. Maybe you needed an adventure, more than most of us. And in due time, I will join you, and we will go on one together.

You, me and hopefully, James.

Despite all the trials and tribunals we have faced, together and alone, life couldn't separate us. What makes you think death can pull us apart?

They say a dog is a man's best friend.

And I say that this wolf could not have found a bigger, or a better friend in a dog.

The weather was lovely, not cold enough to render us numb, not hot enough to entice the sweat from our pores. The air that night was cool, almost wisp-like. We sat there for hours, even though it wasn't a full moon night. We were talking, roaring with raucous laughter, like there wasn't a war to fight outside these walls. James, Peter, you and I.

When I think about us --The Marauders -- forget the grandeur, the pranks, the mischief that we managed -- this is what I think of, the camaraderie, the memories that are seared into the folds of my ageing mind, forever marked in indelible ink.

That night, on the cusp of spring, we sat there by the water like four normal teenagers with our legs swinging over the Black Lake.

" Oi, Marauders! What do you say we make this a night to remember?" That of course was James.

"Oh Prongsy, whatever it is you have in mind, the answer is always yes." And that was you, Padfoot.

"What exactly do you boys have in mind?" The voice of practicality, had to be me.

"Is it dangerous?" Peter quipped up.

"What fun is it if it isn't?" You said, high-fiving James, as you both laughed loudly. I, myself, couldn't contain a chuckle.

"Scared, Peter?" Prongs could never keep the challenge out of his voice while talking to him.

I leant forward just in time to catch James glancing downward, into the water. Your head jerked in affirmation. You turned to face me, your black eyes shining with something larger than life, set in your seventeen year old face.

I could feel our fingers interlocking, and automatically, I clasped Peter's.

"On the count of three?" You asked.

"One," said Prongs.

"Two," you bellowed.

By the count of three, we were already gulping icy water, with laughter echoing into the quiet night.

Dawn. We did it, with infinity locked in our palms. We grasped the world by the lapels and swallowed it whole. This night was, is forever ours.

Death couldn't tear us apart if it tried.

Author's Note:

Anything you recognise, I do not own. It is the property of a lovely woman named J.K Rowling. The line 'Death is but the next great adventure' too belongs to her.

A huge thank you to Lauren/FredWeasleyIsMyKing for her help with this! As for the ending, I do have two lovely friends to thank. H and M, thank you for jumping into that lake with me when I asked.

As always, I'm having some trouble formatting this. It will be fixed as soon as possible. (To the validator who puts up with the constant editing, a HUGE thank you!)

Finally, this was written for the House Cup, 2014. I started off with an idea to write something happy and humourous, but believe me, this won over. Some frienships go beyond death, and I couldn't think of a better example than the Marauders for this.

I hope you enjoyed it. It would be lovely if you could drop me a review. GO GRYFFINDOR!